Friendly Competition
by wickedshenanigans
Summary: Attractive as Henry's archery instructor may be, acting on their attraction has become a battle of wills, and Regina does so hate to lose. A spot of OQ AU for OQ Week.
1. Chapter 1

_Written for Day 6 of OQ Week on Tumblr, and also to fulfil a prompt given to me by **aregaloutlaw**._

_You can find me on Tumblr at **wickedshenanigans**._

_Many thanks go to **Addicted1** for enduring the endless amounts of complaining I did about this story, and for being a good enough friend and beta to tell me when it was crap (only she put it nicer than that)! Thanks lovely!_

* * *

It had started the very first day they showed up, Henry and her, to the archery club's 'Have a Go' day. Oh, the charm had started with her son, of course. Asking Henry if he was there to be the next Legolas or the next Hawkeye, and engaging her eager son in a debate about who was the best Avenger (Regina could barely keep track of which were Avengers and which were X-Men). Effortlessly filling the vacancy for hero-worship that Henry had available while also sealing the deal on the monthly membership fee that would henceforth be coming out of Regina's pocket. No way would she be convincing Henry that this whole archery thing was just a phase now.

The man was handsome enough, she supposed, and, okay, she'd enjoyed the way his eyes caught on her when he was talking to the group and the half-smiles he'd sent her way. His interest in her had been obvious, and she'd been feeling idiotically gratified by his open admiration, sharing flirty looks over the heads of the children he was teaching, including her own son. She still burns with anger and shame now at that thought, at the absurd giddiness with which she enjoyed his attention. Yes, she had smiled when he approached her (and Henry), smiled like a schoolgirl with a crush, and once he was done convincing Henry that Loki couldn't be counted as one of the Avengers (even though he _was_ the coolest), her belly was all butterflies as he lingered to talk to her, alone. He smirked at her and looked her up and down (and she'd _liked_ it, ugh, had practically preened over it, God, she was pathetic), and then he'd made some smartass comment about how she might find it difficult to shoot in such _cumbersome footwear_.

She'd worn heels to make her feel powerful, confident and a little less out of her element. Except all it took was one comment from this good-looking, outdoorsy man to make her feel the exact opposite of all those things. She felt like a fool, like someone who looked as out of place and uncertain as she felt, and no doubt this man and his colleagues had laughed amongst themselves the moment they saw her, knowing immediately how thoroughly she didn't belong there. And she had spat barbs at him, stalked off with her head held high, fumed and seethed in a seat by the wall while Henry showed both enthusiasm and prowess in his newfound hobby, and braced herself with a tightening knot of dread in her stomach for the request she knew would be coming at the end of Henry's first taste of archery lessons.

The beginners' course fee wasn't cheap, and Regina would quite frankly have rather enjoyed never having to see that smug, puffed up, overdeveloped phys-ed coach ever again, but she couldn't bring herself to deny her son the happiness. So when, sure enough, he bounded up to her at the end of the taster lesson and begged her to sign him up, with a sigh (and a smile, for him), she agreed. Refused to look at the handsome instructor as she clacked her way over to the sign-up sheets, instead giving the large man behind the desk her most charming smile, _hello, I'm Regina Mills, and my son would very much like me to sign him up for a beginners' course._

Weekly classes, on a Saturday morning, for eight weeks, and then a discounted club membership at the end of it, if they so chose. She could only hope Henry would lose interest before then (he wouldn't, he was determined, and really she hadn't raised him to be so fickle in his commitments), but until that happened, she had a choice to make. Admit defeat and endure the insufferable, superior looks as she re-entered the range in flats? Out of the question. It was akin to skulking in with her head down and her tail between her legs, which is something Regina would never do, no matter how ill conceived her decision had been in the first place. No, she'd choose defiance over practicality any day, and so the following Saturday, she chose a pair even higher than last week's Valentinos; her favourite Louboutins, classic patent black and red sole. Way over the top for a children's archery class. She knew that. But if one was setting out to make a point, there was no use in making it half-assed.

She supposed, in a way, she was to blame for the continuation of their odd, unspoken battle of wills. If she weren't so contrary by nature, so stubborn and prideful, she never would have worn what were arguably her sexiest shoes to her eight-year-old's midmorning archery lesson. But if she hadn't, she might never have caught the handsome instructor's distinctly dumbfounded look as she tap-tapped in behind her son on those hardwood floors (probably damaging them – good). Caught him drinking her in from her shoes to the rear-hugging pencil skirt and inadequately buttoned silk shirt she'd paired them with. Seen him turn away with the air of a person determined to focus on something else. Oh, he'd seen something he liked, all right. Suddenly, Regina found she wasn't so averse to the idea of coming here every Saturday after all. She'd always enjoyed a good power shift when it was in her favour.

His look, when he casually approached her under the guise of collecting finger tabs from the box near where she sat, was one of amusement. Like he was mildly entertained by her defiance. But she had already seen the way he'd looked at her, and she could see through his nonchalance. She smiled toothily at him.

"I gather we're still not getting you on those feet and shooting today."

"Oh, I have no intention of it," she assured. And then, a conspiratorial whisper, "But if I did, I could certainly manage to ping some sticks at a target in whatever _cumbersome footwear_ I happen to be wearing."

His eyebrows shot up, the amusement genuine.

"Is that so? And you'd deny us such a sight? I'm not sure what we've done to deserve such deprivation."

She smirked, reclining back in her chair, crossing her legs slowly and deliberately, revelling in the helplessly magnetic way his eyes were drawn to the movement.

"I'd be more inclined to ask what you've done to deserve the privilege."

His eyes were dark when they returned to hers, but he simply nodded and voiced his agreement before returning to his teaching.

Round one, and she led the points.

It became a power play, there was no mistaking that. And as it happened, Regina was very well versed in such. Oh yes, she _knew _how to play this game. She'd been raised on and around these unacknowledged tugs-of-war. They neither of them ever attempted to hide their attraction to each other (well, after that first day and once Regina got over her embarrassment, at least). No, this was about who would break first, and Regina was determined that it was _not_ going to be her.

Every week, she wore heels. Sometimes Vuitton ankle boots with skinny jeans, sometimes slingback kitten heels with a flirty red dress, sometimes her tallest, most lethal stilettos. They both knew it was for Robin's benefit (his colleague, John, whom she'd made a point of getting friendly with just to annoy him, had finally introduced them formally), but whether it was to bite her thumb at him for that ill-advised first comment, or to tempt him, was less clear to them both. Still, every week, she would click-clack in with Henry and he would look at her like she was lunch.

The looks they shared had lost subtlety and gained a sexual charge strong enough to fell a horse. A thread of desire zinging between them, which neither of them could take any further if they wanted to win this little game. Their interaction was stalled at his continued insistence that he would get her teetering over to shoot an arrow at a row of targets one of these days. _I'm afraid you'll have to leave that particular fantasy in your imagination_, she'd smugly informed him.

_Only that one?_ he'd returned, and if she could say one thing about him (she could say plenty), he _was_ a worthy opponent.

.

.

It's later in the afternoon one of these Saturdays when she realises she's missing something. She has dropped Henry at his friend Grace's house and is about to head to the grocery store when something niggles at her to check the back seat for her purse before she starts driving.

The back seat is empty.

As is the passenger seat, and the trunk, and it isn't long before she's forced to admit that she has indeed left it at the archery range.

Damn it.

She knows exactly where she left it, can picture it tucked neatly under what she's come to think of as _her_ seat. She knows exactly what made her forget it, too. Henry had waylaid their usually prompt exit by bringing her attention to the flyer on the notice board for the group's upcoming performance – a graduation of sorts for the completion of the beginners' course.

And then _he_ had come over, joining in with Henry's enthusiasm, shooting looks at her all the while, and she supposed she'd just been a little too busy having eye-sex with him to remember to go back for her purse before sauntering out the door.

She sighs, heavily. Nothing to do but go back. She's sure they'll still be open. There's bound to be an afternoon class on a Saturday. She'll just be able to slip in, grab her purse and leave again. Probably no one will even notice her.

Nevertheless, her nerves are not so easily convinced, and the ridiculous fluttering in her stomach as she walks up to the door only serves to make her more annoyed about this whole detour.

The range is eerily quiet as she enters, much more so than she's used to. Although, she can hear the unmistakeable _thunk, thunk_ of arrows hitting targets, so she knows it's not totally empty.

She opens the door separating the entrance from the actual shooting range, and is met with the sight of Robin, alone, firing arrow after arrow at the target, without pausing or, it seems, aiming. He's shed his usual light cotton hoodie and she can see the muscles in his shoulders flexing and shifting as he reaches over his back for a new arrow as fast as he can release them. The white tank he's wearing also showcases his arms rather nicely, and, oh, he has good arms. There's something about a man with really good arms. Like he could quite literally sweep a woman off her feet. Or, you know, lift her up and take her hard against the nearest wall.

The thought has her squeezing her thighs together, and of course, that's the moment that he chooses to look around and see her.

He looks surprised, but it very quickly gives way to a smirk, and he shoulders his bow and makes his way over to her. Flustered, she turns away and walks quickly over to the row of chairs, trying not to look like she'd just been standing there in a haze of lust. She bends to retrieve her purse, and when she straightens, he is right there beside her.

"Ms Mills. This is a surprise."

It's an infuriatingly knowing smile on his lips as he says this, his eyes perusing her lazily, from her mouth to her cleavage, down her legs, and back up, taking his time. His gaze alone makes her nipples tighten.

"If you wanted a private lesson, all you had to do was ask."

She scoffs, a little too loudly, trying to rid herself of the moronic stupor she seems to have wandered into. Something about seeing his physical skill and athleticism has her hormones singing, which apparently means she is quite unable to behave like a remotely intelligent person.

His breath is coming harder than usual from his exertion, and there is a light sheen of sweat on his face, neck and arms. She wonders vaguely what it would taste like.

"I forgot my purse," she says, in the absence of a cleverer retort.

He _aah_s and nods, looking far too much like he's humouring her for her liking. "You know what they say when one forgets something."

She adopts her best unimpressed look.

"That one hasn't been getting enough time to herself lately?"

He chuckles, concedes with another nod, makes to turn back to his target. Giving her a chance to leave without further interaction. She could walk out right now and that would be that.

"What are you doing?" she finds herself asking instead.

"It's called instinctive shooting. It's a different style to what we teach here. A little more… primal."

She raises an eyebrow. He's got to be kidding.

He gives in, laughs at himself with a shake of his head, and to her extreme consternation, wanders over to where a collection of other bows are resting, selects one and holds it out leadingly.

"No."

"Oh come now, m'lady."

"It's Regina," she interrupts firmly, irritated with his affected chivalry. His eyes lock onto hers with an intensity that wasn't there before.

"Regina," he repeats, practically savouring her name and making her eyes drop to his lips completely involuntarily. "It's just us. No need to feel intimidated."

She barks a laugh, at his audacity as much as the suggestion itself.

"Intimidated? By you?"

He shrugs, all false innocence.

"It can be daunting to try something new," he says lightly, all _hey-I'm-not-judging_. But his grin is a wicked thing when he lifts his eyes back to hers. "Then again, you did insist you could shoot in those stilts, and I've yet to see the proof of it."

She lifts her chin, smiles dangerously, takes the barest of steps forward. More fool her for being so easily figured out, but she still can't back down from his obvious challenge.

"Go on then. Dazzle me with your expertise."

He waggles the bow he's already holding out. She sighs and walks towards him, heels tapping, feeling like a walking exhibit with his eyes following her progress the whole way. She plucks it from his hand when she reaches him, refusing to back down from his stare. He waits, lips quirked, then steps in a little closer, hand gesturing out near her hip but not quite touching.

"First, you may want to turn to face the target," he suggests, his voice a low, amused murmur.

She rolls her eyes and turns away, snarking, "What astonishingly productive advice. Somehow I don't think I'll be signing Henry up for the intermediate class."

He doesn't answer, passing her an arrow instead.

"So, nocking the arrow," he says softly. "This little ledge here is the arrow rest – that's where the arrow shaft sits. See how this vane is a different colour? That's the index vane, you want that pointed into your body, away from the bow."

He is close behind her, too close, and she is far too affected, all her senses attuned to his proximity, calculating how far she'd need to pull her elbow back to casually brush his chest, wanting and yet not wanting that hovering hand to make contact with her hip. This won't do at all.

Drawing on her memories of the couple of times Henry had convinced her to try with his second-hand bow at home (she spoils him, she knows, which is half the reason she didn't want to give in to this archery class idea in the first place), she slips the bowstring into the arrow nock, raises and draws without waiting for further direction and treats him to a saucy smile over her shoulder. He looks surprised, impressed surprised, and she sees his eyes flicker down to her lips again, less deliberately this time, sees his throat move as he swallows. Feels the thrill of it skitter over her skin.

"An advanced student, I see," Robin hums. "Very well. Where your hand touches your face is called an anchor point – "

"Yes, my son has already told me all about this," she interrupts. "Do you have any new information to offer, or shall I just take my lessons from him?"

His eyes narrow, and she suspects she may have just awakened a competitive streak.

He steps away, palms raised in a show of surrender, though his eyes are all challenge.

"Well, I wouldn't want to step on young Henry's toes, and it's clear you know what you're doing. By all means, m'lady. Show me how it's done."

He sweeps his arm in front of his body, inviting her to take up her shooting position. His eyebrows are cocked and his mouth is unsmiling, but decidedly self-satisfied. The prat already thinks he's won.

He's got her all ruffled, and annoyed, and she's tossing her hair and turning away from him as though she's got this in hand when really, they both know she's bluffing harder than a gambler without two chips to rub together. Oh, she does hate to be predictable, but, well, she hates losing more.

She does her best to replicate Henry's technique: planting her heels firmly, raising the bow again so it's vertical and she's looking directly down the arrow at the target. She draws the string back – it's harder than she thought it would be – and touches her knuckles to the corner of her mouth. She takes a breath, _doesn't_ care that she can feel his eyes on her, remembers what Henry said about follow through, and looses the arrow.

She keeps her elbow out straight, she swears she does, but somehow the arrow still flies wildly off-target, landing with an anticlimactic clatter on the floor. Not even point down. She grimaces, her whole body shrinking in anticipation of his triumphant mocking.

"Try again."

She starts. His voice is right at her ear now, his warmth at her back, just barely touching, but a hell of a lot closer than he was a few seconds ago. His chest is brushing the thin fabric of her shirt, his upper arms ghosting past her shoulders as he reaches for the bow in her hand.

"May I?"

He's asking permission to touch her, his fingers hovering over her wrist, and there's a private, intimate tone to his voice now, all low and right in her ear, that makes her pelvic muscles clench. Oh, the jerk. Attractive jerk.

She nods mutely to his request, and he gently covers her hand with his, shifting her grip slightly and guiding her bow arm back out straight. His other hand glides down where her other arm has fallen by her side. His fingers trace the lightest of touches down her forearm before he finds her wrist; so light it tickles a little and makes her shiver. A shiver he detects, because he says,

"Is this all right?"

There is disarming sincerity in his voice, he is concerned where he should be victorious, and she thought she could win this game but now she thinks he might be playing a different one altogether. She nods again. He places another arrow in the curl of her fingers, and she just manages to hold onto it.

"I know I don't need to tell you how to load your bow, so go right ahead," he says, softly teasing. She puffs out a breath and nocks the arrow, giving herself a mental shake.

"Now," he says. "Try not to move your upper body so much. You don't need to brace yourself, just relax your shoulders, let your arms do all the work. Your foot positioning's good, but keep your body facing the same way, at a right angle to the target. It will help you get used to aiming down the bow."

She does as she's told, heart pounding ridiculously. He cups the elbow of her relaxed arm.

"Reach for the string and draw it back, but don't twist your torso into it, and keep your head up."

She lifts her chin, lengthening her neck and rolling her shoulders down her back.

"Good," Robin murmurs, and she swears she feels his breath move the hair on her neck. She wonders what it would feel like to have his lips there.

He traces his hand lightly from where her fingers are grasping the arrow end to her bent elbow, nudging the elbow up and slightly to the right. She's practically putty in his hands, malleable and pliant, and she should be embarrassed but she's a little too distracted by the feel of his hands and the seductive closeness of his voice.

"When you loose the arrow, it's a release of the fingers, that's all. Keep everything in the same position and simply relax your grip."

"Okay," she says, her voice breathier than she would've liked.

"Okay," he repeats, a smile in his voice, and she feels him step away to give her room.

She does her best to reign in her desire and returns her focus to her shot. She brings her knuckles in to the same point at the corner of her mouth, lines the arrow tip up with the centre of the target, and shoots.

It hits. It's not even close to the centre, and if it had been any lower it would have shot right under the target, but it _hits_. Swiftly, solidly, and with a pleasing _thunk_.

Regina smiles triumphantly, turns back to look at Robin, startled when she realises how close he still is.

"Very good," he says, his voice a low rumble. His gaze is liquid and he lets it run all over her. There's a distinct hunger in his eyes that sends a throb of heat to her core.

"What?" she demands, blushing with both self-consciousness and arousal.

"Well, if you'll pardon me for saying so, I've just discovered that there's something quite unfairly sexy about a woman shooting a bow and arrow in high heels."

She smiles archly.

"And you doubted that I could do it."

He steps even closer.

"I'm a foolish, foolish man."

And then he is claiming her lips in a fierce, heady kiss that has her dropping the bow with a clunk and fisting her hands in his wife beater, pulling him closer with a ferocity that causes them both to stumble. He secures her to him with one arm around her waist, the other in her hair. The kiss is all tongue, wet and unrefined, passionate and dizzying and God, she is already damp and aching between her legs. He begins to walk them backwards and she almost trips over the bow at her feet – he keeps her upright by grabbing an entirely necessary handful of her ass. He has lost all hesitation in touching her; he rolls a nipple through her shirt with one hand, causing her to moan into his mouth, explores under her shirt with the other, splaying his fingers over her bare back, then moves it down again, dips his fingers just under the waistband of her skirt. Her hands are busy too, one grasping his bicep, the other sliding down to grope his ass in return.

She _oof_s when her back hits the wall and their mouths separate with a pop, both of them panting for breath. They look at each other, both wanting to be sure of what the other wants, neither wanting to break the moment. Regina is the first to speak.

"Maybe I will sign Henry up for that intermediate class after all."

Robin chuckles, and agrees, and kisses her again.

And if she ends her afternoon with her bare legs wrapped around an attractive archery instructor's waist, her Jimmy Choos digging into the small of his back, shoulders grinding into the wall, crying out with every one of his deep, delicious thrusts, well.

She supposes this one could be considered a draw.


	2. Chapter 2

_So, I got a couple of prompts about 800 years ago to write a first date between these two, and I'm finally getting around to posting it! All the gratitude in the world to the wonderful **narcolepticbadger** for all her help. You are the best!_

* * *

"What would you say if I said I wanted to take you on a date?" he asks her casually one afternoon, before they've finished catching their breath.

She looks down between them pointedly, at their naked chests, at her skirt rucked up around her waist, her sweaty thighs nestled in beside his hips. They are in his car this time, in what she hopes is a deserted parking lot, and God, she doesn't do this, she doesn't end up half-clothed in some guy's messy, beat-up old Ford Falcon, grinding down on him with her teeth dug into his shoulder to muffle her cries and hopefully avoid a public indecency charge.

She looks back at him.

"I'd say you're several steps behind. A little slow on the uptake, are you?"

He narrows his eyes at her, leans forward and lightly bites her breast in retaliation for her cheek. Her head falls back, a hum of approval falling from her lips.

"I realise this is a less than conventional point in the proceedings to be asking, but, if it wouldn't be entirely reprehensible to you, I'd like to get to know more than just your body."

She huffs her scorn, shifting slightly, his eyes falling shut with a grimace as he slips from within her. She settles back down on his thighs, rocking slightly, experimenting to see how quickly she can have him riled up and ready again.

"A few quickies and you think you know my body?" she scoffs. "Please. You're still so very much the amateur."

His eyes spark and smoulder in that way that he does when she provokes him. He purses his lips, fixes her with a half-glare, half-smirk that she still, damn it all, finds so terribly attractive.

"Oh, is that so?" he asks, dipping his fingers between her legs where she's still sensitive enough to jerk and gasp at his touch. It's a full-blown smirk that greets her when she opens her eyes again. "So you'd say I have a lot to learn, then?"

The pad of his thumb is swirling in her wetness, gathering enough to slip and slide over her clit.

"Aahh! –yes!" she affirms. "You're still – mmm – in the minor leagues."

In one deliciously skilled finger goes, crooking at just the right angle, and oh, bless archery, she'll never say another word against it.

He's leaning into her neck now, sucking and biting at the join of her neck and shoulder as he alternates between fucking his fingers – two fingers, oh God – into her and sliding them out to circle her clit. Her body is still alive and thrumming from her first orgasm, this won't take long.

"Well I've always been eager to improve myself," he husks, smug, annoyingly smug, but clearly affected enough that she can overlook it. He's stirring back to life between her thighs and she's lunging back and forth with her hips, half involuntary, half to tease out his hard on and even the playing field.

"I don't know what you – unh – hope to get out of it," she says, refusing to be the first to lose track of their conversation.

The fingers thrust hard up into her then, and she can't hold back her moan.

"What on earth do you mean?" he questions, seeming actually somewhat displeased by her statement.

"Well," she pants, eyes closed, her head dropping onto his shoulder, "Why would you bother with the formalities when you've already got the privileges?"

His fingers withdraw, and she opens her eyes to scowl at him, but the expression on his face surprises her. It's not glaring, it's not smirking, and she doesn't have the chance to define what it _is_ before he's kissing her. Deeply, thoroughly, but slower than she's used to. Her brow is furrowed in question when he pulls back.

"Perhaps it's possible that I consider dinner with you a privilege equally worth earning."

Her eyes widen, but he seems to sense that she's not especially comfortable with this line of conversation, in these close quarters, with his fingers and her thighs still wet from their passion. Without another word, he pushes his fingers back up inside her, reaches down with the other hand to attend to her clit, and within minutes she is writhing in his lap, the car filled with her groans and sighs of pleasure, rolling through her in waves until she crests with a long, blissful moan.

Her knees are cramping, but she feels softer, relaxed, a little more powerful, and a little more playful, so she folds herself sideways over his thighs, her back against the car door, taps his nose like he's a naughty puppy.

"So, dinner, huh?"

"If that's agreeable to you."

"You actually want to do this?"

"Yes."

"You want to date me?"

"Yes."

"Why? I'm clearly not your type."

He raises his eyebrows incredulously at that.

"You're right," he says sarcastically. "Usually I prefer to date women who are a little less devastatingly sexy. Better for the self-esteem."

She rolls her eyes, reaches for his now-almost-fully-erect cock and flips it upwards with the pads of her fingers so it hits his belly. He _oof_s, and glares, grabbing her hands and trapping them with his own.

"You know what I mean. You're all outdoorsy, one-with-nature, I-sleep-in-the-dirt-and-bathe-in-the-river wholesome man, while I'm – what was the word you used? Pretentious?"

He's distracted, guiding her hand over his cock, curling his fingers around hers and encouraging a much kinder touch than the one she just administered.

"If you can agree to be seen in public with me, I think I can manage the same," he says.

:

So they go to dinner.

Regina spends an hour and forty-seven minutes getting ready.

By the time she's finally decided on what to wear, what heels go best with her black skinny jeans, done her hair and makeup, changed once more after accidentally dropping the mascara brush and streaking black down her rose-pink top, she's feeling… well, crabby, actually.

It was just simple, before. When all they did was flirt and scratch a mutual itch. She knows he finds her physically attractive - that much is obvious - and it's something she's familiar and comfortable with.

A date, on the other hand. A _dinner_ date. Which would involve a lot of necessary conversation, and dainty eating, and awkward moments with the bill, and awkward moments when it came time to part ways, or not. To kiss goodbye, or kiss their way into someone's bedroom.

(They'd never done it in a bedroom before.)

A dinner date where it would become painfully apparent if he found her less pleasing to talk to than she was to look at.

She doesn't even know what they have in common, besides each having a son, and archery, sort of. What would they talk about?

The whole thing is making her anxious in a way she hasn't felt in years, and she can't help but feel a little resentful for it. Why did he have to complicate things? What was so very wrong with the two of them dallying to mutual satisfaction and leaving it at that? What did he even see in her? Why did she care whether or not he liked her as a person anyway?

She should have said no. Thanks, but no thanks. She still could, she could call and tell him something's come up, that she'll see him on Saturday morning as usual. Nice and easy.

But he'd practically drunk her in as she walked from her Benz across the parking lot, and then sat beside her before the lessons started and whispered _pretentious car you have there, m'lady_ in her ear like it was foreplay, and she'd used her pointy-toed shoe to jab him under the thigh, and he'd given her that heated look that he gives when he's thinking about fucking her. And then they'd ended up in _his_ car, where she'd proceeded to show him that she was all pretension and no class.

Funnily enough, he never makes her feel that way.

No, he makes her feel sexy, and desirable, and young and carefree and wild, and she likes it.

She likes him.

He makes her laugh, and smile, and cry out his name, and she _looks forward_ to seeing him every Saturday. He is good with her son, and good for _her_. She can feel it.

And she is going to ruin it.

:

Henry tells her she looks pretty as she kisses him goodbye, and Ruby, waitress at her local cafè and sometimes-sitter, gives her an annoyingly knowing look as she seconds the opinion. Regina had eventually decided (post-mascara spill) on a sheer cream blouse through which Robin can ogle her peach-and-black Dita Von Teese bra. Perhaps a bit racier than she'd normally wear on a first date, but then, it's nothing he hasn't seen (touched, licked, sucked, bitten) before. She paired it with designer black skinny jeans that make both her ass and her calves look good, and of course, the usual heels - her cobalt suede Blahniks, this time. She's covered the ensemble with a coat before leaving her bedroom - no need to traumatise her son with the sight of his mother's date night lingerie, after all.

:

Her tetchy mood is momentarily mollified when she approaches the table Robin's already sitting at (she's punctual; he's early), and for several moments he just sort of stares at her. It's not his usual deliberate roving gaze either, intended to set her alight with each slow, savouring pass of his eyes over her body. This seems slightly more involuntary. He gives his head a little shake, an almost bemused smile on his lips, and she finds herself blushing. How ridiculous.

"What?"

"I apologise, it's just that I've suddenly realised exactly how many miles out of my league you are."

She rolls her eyes, but can't stop the flattered smile that significantly softens her disdain.

He rises, closes the distance between them, traces a hand lightly over her waist to her hip, practically breathes his words to her mouth,

"You are a fucking _goddess_, Regina."

She thinks about arguing, just the semantics of such an outrageous statement of course, but then his other hand comes down to her other hip, just a light brushing of his fingertips against her, and he presses a kiss into her mouth; closed-lipped but somehow burning with promise. It leaves her a little breathless.

He nudges the corner of her chair with his foot, pushing it halfway out for her before sitting down again, smirking up at her.

"And I am a toad, I'm afraid."

She returns his smirk, slides neatly into her seat.

"Is that your way of begging for a kiss?"

He laughs.

"I don't beg," he says, and a charged look passes between them, then he continues airily with, "But I would never refuse anything _you_ happened to ask for."

He raises his brows as if to challenge her - she shakes her head, still smiling.

"You do know, of course, that it tends to be the daintier frog varieties - " (she snorts and repeats _dainty?_, unable to let that one go by unmocked, but he carries on talking and ignores her interruption completely, looking pleased with himself despite his self-deprecation) "- that transform into princes. We toads are far less prone to such spontaneous improvements."

"Well, there goes my hope for the evening," Regina says with a theatrical sigh.

"We may not be the best dinner partners," he concedes. "But I do hope the wine will make up for it."

He retrieves the bottle of red from the middle of their table, and Regina eyes the label.

"Is that a Bordeaux?"

"It is," he smiles, pleased.

"What year?"

"Er," he turns the bottle in his hand, inspects the label himself, "a '92."

"Ah, the '98 is better," she teases.

He falters for a second, just a second, a look of uncertainty and insecurity passing over his face, and it causes a sudden wave of insecurity and self-beration to wash over her as well. Why did she even say that? Stupid, she really _is_ pretentious, and what a great way to make him realise spending more time with a stuck-up bitch like her was a giant mistake…

But he recovers quickly; smiles, and says, "Let's hope the conversation leaves nothing to be desired, then," and she is warmed by a flood of gratitude. She smiles back.

And they do make good conversation, at first. She can't help but feel like she needs to explain herself for the stupid wine comment, so she talks about her father and his beloved hobby, about childhood memories of his cellar and being educated on the superiority of this vintage or that vineyard in the half-light, the rich smell of fermenting wine all around them. Her Papi's soothing voice and red-stained fingernails, how even now she sends a silent apology to him whenever she drinks a white straight from the refrigerator without giving it the proper airing time.

She doesn't tell him how the wine cellar, the time spent down there with her father, became something of a safe haven from her mother, who found the smell overpowering. Nor does she give voice to the ache that the loss of her father still brings whenever she talks about him. No need to depress them both on the first date.

"He sounds like a wonderful father," Robin says, watching her with soft eyes, something almost a little wistful in his tone, or perhaps regretful.

"He was," she agrees. Her own eyes feel dangerously full, so she shifts topics. "Henry is named after him."

They talk about her son briefly, Robin gratifying her with praise of Henry's progress and general manner and attitude in class. He gets on well with everybody, and is always willing to help others - a generous, good-hearted young man, Robin says, and Regina beams with pride. Henry has made a good few archery friends, she knows (which has been mightily convenient for their mid-afternoon delights, she thinks with a twinge of guilt). Robin mentions his own son, Roland, who is shy and finds it a little harder to make friends. Regina has met the sweet little boy only once, and is eager to know more about him, but then they are interrupted by the waiter, and conversation is diverted to the task of deciding what to order.

They're distracted then, anticipating their food, sipping at the wine (the '92 is _not_ a great year, but Robin wasn't to know. Though she does wonder why he didn't just go for a safer Pinot Noir or something instead), commenting on the patrons around them and eyeing up the meals that arrive at other tables.

"So, tell me about your job," Robin says eventually. "I know so little about it, and you are so intimately acquainted with mine."

And he says 'intimately' in this certain _way_, a way that has her smirking, and dropping her eyes, and shifting in her seat, heat stealing into her belly.

"I see, and you think it's your turn to get _intimately acquainted,_ is that it?"

He grins. "Indubitably."

He accompanies the (in her opinion) ridiculous word with a waggle of his eyebrows, that for a moment has her unable to decide whether to laugh at him or kiss the pants off him. She settles for shaking her head as they grin stupidly at each other, and she takes a fortifying sip of wine before launching into an explanation of what she does for a living.

She should have known better, really. It's not a conversation topic that tends to bring out the best in her. She's a commercial producer, she explains (that is, a producer of commercials, spending her days and nights number-crunching and sweet-talking spoiled, rich clients into letting her help them sell their products, because she sold out herself). But she ends up doing more complaining than explaining, really. Never a good thing to do on a date.

"They're just so accustomed to getting what they want," she says. "And it's because they always _do_ get what they want. Even if I say no, we can't give you all of those things and stay within budget, they'll just expect me to ask the crew to work for less. They're never willing to let go of their heli shots, or their crane rigs, or their five locations, or their rain towers, but if they can skimp on the people, oh, they can't sign that contract fast enough. Except when it comes to flying their preferred DP out of Australia, though. God forbid they hire somebody local."

He's staring at her when she finishes, his expression blank. She's suddenly aware of just how much she's been talking.

"What exactly is a DP?" he asks after a short pause.

"Oh, sorry," she always uses too much jargon when she talks about work, "Director of Photography. The Cinematographer, head of the camera department."

"Right, got it," he says, and there's something oddly snippy in the way he says it. "So they'll pay only for the most important people."

"Sad but true. They never fly economy either. It's always business class."

"Which your company pays for?"

She nods.

"And, what, they just get away with undercutting crew? Can't you tell them you won't do it?"

She almost winces. Almost lies. He's not going to be impressed with her answer, she knows.

"I could. But then there's always somebody else out there who will do it. And the clients know it."

"So if you're not willing to underpay the worker bees, somebody else will get the job who is."

She bristles a little at the implication, can't help it. She tries to reign it in though, telling herself he doesn't mean anything by it.

"It's not the best industry for taking a stand, unfortunately," she admits.

"No," he hums. "That sort of thing is never the most convenient course of action."

If it had been said in a lighter tone, if he'd been smiling or even looking her in the eye when he said it, she might have taken it as a wry comment on society at large, or even a bit of cynical understanding. But there's a noticeable strain of bitterness in his voice that fails to ease the feeling that it's aimed directly at her.

"It's never convenient," she says, trying to sound totally composed and not at all defensive. "But we all have to keep working, and actually a large part of my job is not burning bridges with the people who bring money to my door."

"Whoever has the gold makes the rules, right?"

"Which is true in any business," she snaps, and damn it, but she _does_ sound defensive now.

He looks up, almost appearing startled by her sudden sharpness, and his strange, forcibly blank expression melts into contrition.

"I'm sorry, I'm being an arse," he says. "I didn't mean to offend you. I guess I'm just a little too predisposed to think ill of wealthy people who are in the habit of getting their way."

At her frown, he elaborates: "My father was one. And he very much wanted me to become one too."

"You don't seem the type," she says, and then instantly cringes when she realises how it sounded. What's happened? Things were going so well, and now there seem to be feet in mouths all over the place.

He catches her wince, and chuckles softly, placing his hand over hers.

"It's okay. You're right. I am neither the type to accumulate excessive wealth, nor the type to become a little too used to getting what I want. Which is why I'm still rather surprised you agreed to have dinner with me."

He smiles, and she smiles.

"So, if I'm understanding this correctly, being a television commercial producer basically involves mastering the art of sucking up, am I right?"

He's still smiling as he says it, so she knows he means it in fun, but she's never been especially good at laughing at herself, and she already feels off-kilter from the rocky progress of the conversation so far, and, no, actually, that's not all her job entails (a part of it, sure, but not _all_). Though she can see there's not much point in explaining that to him. And she really _doesn't_ want to be the shrew who ruins their date, so she plasters on a smile and says,

"Pretty much, yes."

"Well I hope they don't try to undercut _your_ pay. I'd say you earn it for dealing with plonkers like that," he says, smiling, smiling, and she keeps smiling too and doesn't answer, because no, they don't undercut her, and she has a feeling he's very well aware of that. She crosses her ankles, tucking her Blahniks further under her chair, and takes another large sip of inferior wine.

:

Regina is relieved when the food arrives, but things only go downhill from there. Apparently it's Robin's turn to feel the need to explain himself, telling her about his struggles with Roland's private school ('Which he's only going to at all because my father, who liked to look down his nose at absolutely everyone, insisted on it'), and why he's particularly tetchy about the 'golden rule' right now.

She wants to point out the Aladdin reference, knows it well herself from multiple rewatchings with Henry, wonders if Roland had (or has?) a similar fixation with the flying carpet, wants desperately to lighten the mood and steer the conversation back to the easy back-and-forth it's always been between them. But it feels rude to change the subject now, like she's bored or uncomfortable or doesn't care. So she listens, and tries to sympathise, even tries to offer advice. But it seems that the more she tries, the more prickly he becomes, and the more he rolls his eyes at her or impatiently dismisses something she says, the closer her own hurt and temper get to the surface.

"If Roland's not eligible for a scholarship, maybe you should consider putting him into public school. Your father's standards don't have to be yours."

She's sounding a little frustrated now, but, well, she is.

"His opinions weren't entirely unfounded, though," Robin argues, clearly getting frustrated too. "The quality of education, the opportunities and all that are much better, and I want the best for my boy. It's just without my father's financial backing - "

"There's nothing wrong with public school if you're in the right area, Robin," Regina says. "They have plenty of opportunities and really wonderful teachers, and frankly, all this stress and struggle on Roland's behalf isn't going to be doing him any good anyway."

It's Robin's turn to bristle. His features harden, his brows inch closer together, and he leans back in his chair, away from her.

"You'll have to excuse me, but I think our experiences of stress and struggle as a parent are probably vastly different," he bites out.

Regina feels herself grow cold.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Look, no offense, Regina, but your kid has probably never wanted for anything in his life. I've no doubt you've already put aside his Ivy League college fund, which is lovely for you both, but I find it a little hard to accept platitudes about struggling from someone born sucking on a silver spoon."

And as he says it, he sweeps his arm in front of him in frustration, and just catches the edge of the table number in its metal stand. It topples, knocks into the side of her wine glass and sends it flying into her lap, completely soaking her cream silk blouse in red wine.

She gasps.

He freezes.

The patrons around them turn to look. A waitress spots the spill and hurries over.

"Oh gosh, hang on, I can get you some club soda – "

"Don't bother," Regina snaps. Dousing the entire blouse in wine to even out the colour would be more efficient than club soda at this point. It's ruined, and it's not the only thing that is.

Regina stands up, yanking her purse off the back of her chair and digging through it for a handful of bills, which she tosses on the table.

"Well, as much fun as this was, I have to go be insulted and have wine thrown over me elsewhere now."

"Oh come on, you know that was an accident, Regina – "

She rounds on him ferociously, suddenly seething with rage and sick with hurt and bitter disappointment.

"How _dare_ you treat me like I'm somehow less of a parent than you are, because you think I haven't had _hardships_ enough for you? You know absolutely nothing about me, what the hell gives you the right to decide that my struggles couldn't possibly measure up to yours?"

He's gaping at her, looking utterly shocked at her outburst, seemingly lost for words. Her hold on her emotions is feeling dangerously tenuous, and she realises she doesn't want to hear his response anyway, so she turns abruptly for the exit.

That snaps him out of it, and later, when she's morosely replaying the whole scene in her head, she'll never be quite sure if she imagined the anxiety in his voice when he says her name.

She does turn around, but doesn't give him a chance to say anything else.

"You know what, you were right," she says, as viciously as she can manage in a voice that's just a touch unsteady. "If this is the league you're in, I am most definitely out of it."

And she's gone, leaving him scrambling out of his seat, fumbling for his wallet, stuttering apologies to the waitress (pompous English asshole) and shouting after her all at the same time.

She doesn't slow her pace, and luckily she's more than capable of walking quickly in high heels. Not that she should have even bothered. She thinks of how long she spent deliberating over what to wear this evening, and her throat tightens with anger and humiliation. She should have known. She should have _known_ he'd judge her just like everybody else.

She practically jumps straight in front of the first cab she sees, climbing in and ignoring his huff of _I can see you perfectly well from the sidewalk, y'know._ She tersely gives him her address and spends the entire ride raging at Robin in her head, using anger and sheer force of will to stop the tears from spilling down her cheeks.

:

It may be the cowardly thing to do, but she calls in a favour and has her friend Kathryn take Henry to archery lessons the following Saturday. Avoiding the man she's been sleeping with after they had a spectacularly terrible date seems like a reasonable course of action to her. The very rare free morning is spent much like she's spent the rest of the week: brooding, picking up after Henry and answering emails in front of _Revenge_. She tries to make the most of it, because, really, she knows she can't carry on like this. Kathryn can't take Henry to archery for her _every_ Saturday. And besides, this was her mistake, she should have known it could only end badly, and she went and did it anyway, so now she has to own it. And she will. Next Saturday.

Next Saturday comes around faster than she might have preferred.

It's with churning anxiety that she picks out her heels, resentful that this has become a _thing_ now, a thing she associates with him. At least when they were just fuck-buddies, she felt sexy and confident when she chose her shoes, eagerly anticipating the reaction she knew he'd have.

She doesn't know what his reaction will be this time.

She almost considers wearing something else. But it still feels like admitting defeat, and Regina doesn't do that.

So she saunters into the archery club with a hand on Henry's shoulder, head held high and heels clacking, acting for all the world as if she belongs.

Her traitorous eyes find Robin almost immediately, and so she does not miss the way he practically lights up at the sight of her. It throws her a little, and Henry has already run off to catch up with his friends (she was careful not to let him become aware of her maudlin mood these past two weeks, but right now she almost wishes he was aware, so he'd know how little she wanted to be left alone), and for a moment they just stand there, on almost opposite sides of the range, just staring at each other. It only takes a slight twitch of his arm, a miniscule hint of movement in her direction to snap her out of it, and she hurries to her usual seat without looking at him again. Her heart pounds as she fossicks in her bag for her phone, sure she can feel his eyes on her, but when she next dares to look up, his attention has moved elsewhere. She watches him cautiously, prepared to be very occupied with checking emails should he turn in her direction. But then the lesson is starting, and he doesn't look at her again.

She's disappointed, and irritated with herself.

The entire lesson drags. She's a tightly-wound ball of tension, spending a great deal of energy appearing calm and collected. She absolutely refuses to gaze mournfully at him like some sort of pathetic teen romance heroine, but in her determination not to look up, she's been staring so hard at her phone that her head is beginning to hurt.

When the lesson finally does end, Robin is caught up talking to a couple of other parents. Relieved to have an easy escape (yes, relief is what she's feeling), she waves Henry over and leads the way out the door.

"What's the big rush?" Henry asks when he catches up to her.

"I have a couple of work things I need to take care of," she says, not really a lie - there were some questions in her emails that she needs to follow up on - "But maybe later on we could go to a movie. Would you like that?"

"Cool," Henry nods. "What movie?"

"How about that Batman one?"

Henry stops in his tracks and grabs her arm dramatically.

"Wait. You'd let me go see an R-rated movie?"

She shrugs casually. "Maybe just this once."

"Yes!" Henry releases her arm to punch the air excitedly. Regina smiles. She does so love to make her son happy.

"Can you see on your phone what time it's on?" he asks eagerly.

"Why don't you -" -look it up when we get home, was what she was going to say, but she's interrupted by someone calling her name. She turns, though she'd know his voice anywhere.

Robin.

He was jogging towards her, but he slows to a walk when he sees he's got her attention. She turns back to Henry, half crouches to his level, asks him to wait for her in the car, she'll just be a minute. She watches him trot away, taking a minute to control her expression before she turns to face Robin.

He's caught up to her, standing almost within arm's reach of her, the closest they've been in two weeks. His eyes move over her face, drinking her in like she's a sight for sore eyes, like he's missed her. She shifts uncomfortably under his gaze, not sure what to make of it, looks down at his hands instead. He's holding his green canvas backpack in one, and the other is extended, offering something to her.

It's a white shirt.

A nasty, cheap white shirt.

The cut isn't _too_ bad, the shape passable, but the material is horrid. Coarse, stiff, bleached to within an inch of its life, obviously cheap polyester.

"What's that?" she asks.

He smiles sheepishly, tentatively.

"An apology?" he says.

She crosses her arms. Waits.

"Look, Regina, I'm sorry. I was an idiot. A thoughtless, unfair and inexcusably rude moron."

She used slightly stronger words, she thinks, but doesn't reply.

"You might have reason to doubt this now, after I behaved so terribly, but I really like you. I wanted to impress you. I was trying too hard, because I was nervous, and somehow I ended up treating you like my own feelings of inadequacy were your fault. They weren't, and you deserved a whole lot better. Even before I ruined your shirt. So -" he offers the shirt in his hand again - "I wanted to say I'm sorry. Truly."

She hesitates, eyeing him, eyeing the shirt.

"That is a terrible shirt," she pronounces.

To her surprise, he concedes with a nod and a tentative smile.

"I thought perhaps you'd like the opportunity to dye this one yourself."

And from his backpack he produces a bottle of wine. A '98 Bordeaux, if she's not very much mistaken.

She's surprised, impressed even, and she's sure it shows on her face. She keeps her arms folded, though.

"You didn't have to do that. That's an expensive wine."

"Well, I was assured it's a good vintage."

She falters, unsure if he's making fun of her. He eases a little closer.

"I just wanted to show you I can offer more than quickies in sweaty change rooms. I'd still like to try and prove that to you. That I'm worthy of you."

She sighs, holds out her hand for the bottle, but doesn't take it entirely from him, instead just brushes his hand with hers.

"Did I ever give you any indication that I thought you weren't worthy of me?" she asks.

"You mean apart from when you said I was out of your league?" he teases, seeming to sense he's going to be let off the hook.

"I think you decided that all on your own," she murmurs.

He smiles at her, really smiles, not a smirk or a cocky grin or that lip-biting, tongue swiping restless coy thing he does sometimes, but a real smile, small but soft and _affectionate_ in a way that makes her drop his gaze and snatch the wine from him just to have something else to do. She makes a show of reading the label carefully, turning the bottle over and over in her hands, and she's not blushing, not blushing at all.

"Does it pass muster?" he asks.

She shrugs one shoulder carelessly. But she looks up at him from under her lashes and smiles.

"Will it compliment a good spag bol?" he continues, and it_ is_ a teasing smile now.

She shakes her head, doesn't even know what he's talking about, but she can't stop smiling.

"Undoubtedly."

She feels light for the first time in two weeks; she missed this, the banter, the flirting. But she's aware of Henry waiting in the car, probably getting impatient, so she takes a step back.

"I have to go," she says. "Henry's waiting."

He catches her free hand, a sudden earnestness in his eyes.

"Will you let me try and make it up to you? I'll cook you dinner at my place, tomorrow. We can drink that wine and spill spaghetti sauce down our fronts. I can try and impress you in a less moronic fashion. Please?"

She feels warm, from his hand holding hers, to the light blush on her face, to somewhere fuzzy and sentimental in her chest at the way he's looking at her, the sincere hope in his expression.

"Okay," she agrees. "Let me know a time."

He breaks out into a delighted grin, strokes his thumb across the back of her hand.

"I'll text you," he says. "You bring the wine."

She adjusts her grip on the bottle in her hand with another eye roll. She nods towards his other gift.

"I'm not taking that shirt," she says.

"It's okay, I prefer you shirtless anyway," he shrugs cheekily, and she chuckles.

:

That Sunday night, for the first time, they share a bed.

They even spoon.

She arrives early when she'd meant to be late, and he sports a grin as wide as his face when he opens the door.

"Can I just tell you I'm very, very glad to see you?" he says, and kisses her gently, almost tentatively. She's smiling too when he pulls back.

She hands back his bottle of Bordeaux, and he takes it with pursed lips and a frown.

"Pity," he says, eyes sparkling as he checks her face for a reaction.

"What?" she plays along.

"Well, I have heard the '92 has a much better colour."

He's smiling, his playful, teasing intent clear, but there's an air of slight uncertainty about him too. Hoping that this will be okay, that they can joke about it and put it behind them. And Regina smiles, and laughs a little, and she's relieved because it comes easily, naturally, they _can_ laugh about it, and she feels better about this date already. Robin's relief is obvious too, and he pecks her lips again before ushering her inside, declaring,

"Enough of this nonsense, I have a culinary masterpiece to attend to."

:

So he cooks, and she uncorks the wine, and refuses to pour it until it's had a chance to breathe. He is long-suffering and dramatic, and bemoans the fact that her father didn't see fit to teach his only daughter all about football teams instead. She smiles warmly at him, stupidly pleased that he listened so well to her stories about her father.

She leans on the bench to watch him as they wait for the wine (_'An absurd notion'_), and it turns out his 'spag bol' is her spaghetti sauce, both of which are bastardised versions of the genuine Italian article. Though, she smugly insists, her heritage naturally puts her sauce ahead in the running.

"Outrageous claims like that must be backed up, I'm afraid," he tells her.

"What makes you think I can't?" she challenges, toe-to-toe with him, a cutting board of fresh basil behind him and the sauce bubbling away at her elbow.

"Oh, I don't doubt you for a minute," he says, his eyes on her mouth. "It's only that I quite enjoy watching you prove a point."

She can't help it - her eyes are on his mouth too, and she watches his tongue dart out to wet his lips and then his teeth catch the lower one - she kisses him fiercely, suddenly oh-so-aware that it's been two weeks since they last had sex.

They kiss heatedly against the kitchen bench, his hand making its way under her shirt and teasing around the underwire of her bra before a sudden hissing, sizzling sound startles them apart. Robin leaps to the rescue of the spaghetti sauce, and Regina finally pours the wine.

He joins her on the couch when the sauce is under control, and they clink glasses. He curses softly after his first sip.

"What?" she asks, suddenly anxious.

"It _is_ better," he scowls, and she laughs.

She watches from the couch, her now-bare feet on the armrest, as he moves smoothly around his kitchen. She has to admit (not aloud, of course) it smells fairly heavenly. They make idle conversation in short bytes across the room, and when their spaghetti is ready, he sits on the floor without missing a beat, his back against the couch she's hogging.

Banter is exchanged about his DVD collection. It transpires that Roland is more of a fan of Abu the monkey than of the magic carpet. Robin himself claims a crush on Princess Jasmine as his own reason for multiple viewings, making Regina laugh.

"Oh dear, how shall I ever compete?" she smirks.

"A fair concern, m'lady, you are distinctly lacking in pet tigers."

She swats him on the shoulder with her fork (licked clean). He tips his head back to look at her, warmth in his eyes and a spot of sauce on his chin.

"But in every other way - beauty, intelligence, bravery, wit and certainly attitude - you exceed by far."

She rolls her eyes in order to stave off her flattered smile, wiping the sauce away with her thumb.

"Delighted to hear I come out on top against a Disney princess," she snarks.

"You come out on top in all things," he replies with a wink and a kiss to her knee - which is the only part of her he can reach.

She chuckles lowly. He's not wrong.

After dinner, they watch a movie, some black and white old romance thing that Regina eyes with great suspicion.

"You're not trying to impress me again, are you?" she accuses.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he replies. "As a matter of fact, I'm counting on it boring you so completely that you will be forced to make out with me just to pass the time."

"What a game plan."

He grins at her, and her chest flutters a little.

It's not just to spite him that she finds herself getting rather invested in the outcome of Rick and Ilsa's trials and tribulations, but she's also absentmindedly running her fingers through his hair and down the back of his neck, and the quiet _mmm_ of appreciation he lets out, leaning his head further back into her touch, effectively distracts her from the movie.

She sits up and forward, sliding a hand over his jaw to accompany the one already cradling the back of his head he looks at her, as best he can from his awkward angle, and she kisses him. And kisses him. And kisses him. And when the Spider-Man kisses get uncomfortable, she slides off the couch and joins him on the floor, straddles his lap in fact, her back to the TV and his fingers tight on her hips.

It doesn't take long for her to be practically riding him through his jeans, his hands encouraging every grind of her pelvis down into his. He wastes no time in tugging her shirt up and off, then there's a brief struggle over whether she gets to pull his shirt off or if he gets to remove her bra first. She wins, and he makes up for lost time by pushing one bra cup down and sucking hard on her nipple. She throws her head back and moans loudly, and he grins around his mouthful of her breast, his other hand leaving her hip and working the button on her jeans.

His touch feels electric, her arousal already reaching a fever pitch, and she doesn't know if it's the two-week abstinence or the happy relief of their reunion, but it only takes a minute or two for her first orgasm to hit her, with both of them still fully clothed from the waist down.

She achieves her second half-sitting on the couch, divested of her jeans and underwear but her bra still on and askew; his head between her legs and his tongue flickering over her in a way that makes her shriek her orgasm to the ceiling.

"I have neighbours, you know," he admonishes, which would be more effective if he wasn't wearing such a shit-eating grin.

She sits up and gives him a tongue-filled kiss.

"Let them jerk off if they must," she grins.

When he finally gets her naked and suggests they move to the bedroom, she surprises them both by crawling to him on all fours and whispering,

"No. Here. Like this."

She wiggles her ass for good measure, even though he isn't getting the full view of it, and he groans aloud. But instead of taking her very well-presented offer, he cups her jaw with unbearable gentleness and kisses her. It's a long kiss, exploratory, with none of the urgency of the others. Her heart is racing when they separate, and she can barely meet his intense gaze.

"You're sure?" he asks, running his hand over her shoulder and down her spine.

She does meet his gaze then. She's never offered this before - she's almost always on top, except when they do it against a wall. Granted, a lot of the confined spaces they tend to find themselves fucking in do make woman-on-top a logical choice - but still, this is a significant first. One he's clearly aware of.

She smiles. And nods.

And that's how she reaches her third orgasm: on her hands and knees on his living room floor, his cock deep inside her and his skilled fingers dancing over her clit.

They still haven't had sex in a bed.

But they will wake up together in one, and that's a whole different kind of first.


End file.
